


Tether

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Riding Crop, Sherlock should learn to use his safeword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill: BDSM gone wrong.  Sherlock thinks he can handle it and doesn't use his safe word.  He tries to stick it out to the end and holds off much longer than is healthy and John only realizes toward the end that something is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tether

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the summary please, this is consensual BDSM but it does get taken a little too far.

“Look at you,” John said. He ran a hand down Sherlock’s back, then leaned forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Incredible, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Just, how do you let me do this to you?” John tugged at the leather cuffs securing Sherlock to the bedposts. His arms were stretched to either side, spread wide, not so much that it hurt but enough that Sherlock couldn’t lift his chest from the mattress.

“It’s easy,” Sherlock said, and it was. Lying still, letting John tie him, submitting to his hand or his belt or a paddle, it was all easy. He didn’t have to worry. John would take care of him.

John sprawled across his back, his weight warm and steady, securing him. He nuzzled the nape of Sherlock’s neck, hummed contentedly. “Nobody ever let me do this before. Nobody liked it the way you do. I thought…”

Sherlock could hear what he didn’t say. He thought it was wrong, that he was wrong for wanting it, for enjoying it. “I like it,” Sherlock said. “It’s all fine.” He already felt quiet in his head, calm with the press of John on top of him, safe with his hands snug in the cuffs. His skin was hot, tingling, anticipating what was to come. Sharp streaks of feeling, the sting of a slap, the rush of sensation. He had known for some time that he and John were uniquely suited, that they fit each other beautifully. Finding out they complemented each other in this should not have been surprising.

“I’m going to try something new,” John said, murmuring the words in his ear. “Something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Yes.” Sherlock could hear the eagerness in his own voice, the edge of impatience.

“Remember your safe word? Stop me if it’s too much.”

“Right, fine,” Sherlock replied. John was too cautious with him, really. He hadn’t stopped anything they’d done so far; only a few weeks of exploration, true, but it was all so _good_ and Sherlock couldn’t imagine ever wanting to stop.

John’s weight pulled back, and he leaned over. Sherlock had his cheek on a pillow, his head turned sideways so he could see the room. John came into his peripheral vision and Sherlock watched him. The way John looked when they did this was delicious, intoxicating, addictive. The flush on his skin, the spark of excitement in his eyes, the way he bit his lip in concentration. John climbed off and crossed the room, wearing only sleep pants slung low on his hips. He rummaged through a drawer, muttering to himself, and then stood, grinning. There was something soft and black clutched in one hand. He stalked back to Sherlock. The shift had already happened in him; Sherlock had seen it before and it amazed him every time. Calm, polite, harmless John Watson was gone, and instead there was this predator, sleek and commanding, utterly certain of his dominance.

John crouched beside the bed and showed him what was in his hand—a black sleep mask, soft and velvety. “You’re going to wear this.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes obediently. He felt the brush of John’s fingertips over his cheek, then in his hair, smoothing it back. Then the mask fitted over his eyes, the strap going behind his head. It was comfortable, light, and rested easily against his face. He tried opening his eyes behind it but could see only a tiny flicker of light around the edges.

There was quiet—John watching him, probably. John loved to look at him when he was tied and helpless. Sherlock could picture his expression, the greedy, possessive look he got. The way his hands clenched as if they already wanted to be on his skin. It was different, not being able to see it. His memory was excellent but there were always so many details, something just a little different every time, and this was still new. He had no data for how John reacted to the sight of him in the mask, there was only blank space in his mental image. Sherlock suppressed a tiny frown.

Footsteps now, padding quietly around the bed. Sherlock strained to listen. John was at the foot of the bed—no, there, that creak, that was the board in the hall. John leaving the room? Why would he do that? To fetch something? If Sherlock could see him, he would know, he’d be able to quickly deduce what was coming but he had nothing to go on. As the silence drew out, Sherlock began to doubt he’d actually heard John leave. Surely there was no reason for him to do that. They had everything they needed here. But then what was John doing? Standing there, watching him, letting the anticipation draw out? He did that sometimes, it was plausible, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure.

He heard another soft sound, one he couldn’t immediately identify. It was far away though, a kind of wooden scrape. Something downstairs, perhaps. Was John doing something downstairs? Was… was someone else in the flat?

No, that was nonsense, there was nobody else in the flat. Only the two of them, and soon John would return (unless he was there already, maybe he’s there, _where is he?_ ) and he’d touch Sherlock, grounding him again. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning up scenarios, though. Someone else in the flat, someone quiet, someone who had managed to take John down with minimal struggle. Someone who was even now coming up the stairs. Someone who would find Sherlock, tightly bound to the bed, naked and helpless.

Sherlock shifted and rubbed his cheek against the pillow. If he could move the mask, just a little, he could see around the edge. He’d probably find John right there, watching him, if he could just peek a little. But the strap was snug and smooth, he could get no friction on it. His vision remained stubbornly black. Sherlock could hear his own breathing, growing rapid, his heart thumping heavily. His skin felt cold, exposed. Vulnerable. Anyone could be standing there, watching him, deciding what to do with him. He tugged at the wrist cuffs. He pushed with his toes against the bed, scrabbling a little, but that only raised his arse higher.

He should call out. If John was there, he’d answer, and Sherlock would know. But what if he didn’t answer? What if he wasn’t there? What if there was some stranger, some intruder in the flat and he heard Sherlock call out, and came looking? Sherlock bit his lip to stifle the sound that wanted to escape. It made a soft, choked noise in his throat. He held his breath, trying to listen. The flat was full of sounds, it was always like that; traffic outside and the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak. They were familiar, known sounds but he couldn’t tell if there was something foreign in the mix, something that did not belong.

Then—there, much closer. In the room with him. A footstep, light, then another. Sherlock became tense and still, coiled. There was a brief _swish_ as something moved through the air, and then a hot streak of pain, across his arse and thigh. Sherlock couldn’t stop a startled cry, and then another as a second stroke landed. His skin heated immediately, the flush sweeping over him, tingling from his fingertips to his scalp. John, it had to be John, of course it was John. Nobody else would sneak into the flat to whip him with a riding crop. Absurd that he’d worked himself into a near panic just because he couldn’t see.

And yet. If John would just say something, if he’d just touch Sherlock, it would be so much better. Sherlock could still feel that tight ball of fear, low in his belly, swirling uneasily. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, biting his lip as the strokes moved from his thighs to his back. He didn’t speak when they did this, it was a rule, and he did want to be good. John always praised him so warmly when he was good.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to relax into the rhythm of the strokes. They played up and down his back, catching on his ribs, fire on his skin. The burning rush of it coalesced into one broad sheet of sensation, lying heavy on him, stealing his breath. He could hear the ragged stutter to his own breathing, and his head spun dizzily, full of white noise and light, overwhelmed. He couldn’t hear John, couldn’t see John, but of course it was John (of course, of course, almost certainly) so it was okay. John would take care of him. He only had to wait.

He should be floating now, erection pressing eagerly into the mattress below him, disconnected from the constant distraction of his thoughts and riding a wave of pure physical sensation. That was always the best part, the escape. But he couldn’t stop listening, hoping for some clue, some sign from John. Even one touch from his hand would be enough. Sherlock knew his touch intimately, perfectly. The calluses on his fingers, the exact width of his palm, the short scrape of his fingernails. He needed that tether. The security, the knowledge that John was here and would take care of everything, that would allow him to let go.

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t drift away and let the pain stop mattering, let it drive him higher. Instead it raked him, trapped him, left him gasping and squirming on the bed. He turned his head from side to side, rubbing at the mask. Flickers of light only, not what he needed, and his voice broke into a helpless whine. He pushed his hips to one side as much as he could, then the other, trying to dodge, but that was useless because he couldn’t see the strokes coming. They weren’t steady. There would be three, maybe four in rapid succession, and then a gap, long enough for him to feel his pounding heart and the searing burn on his skin, long enough for him to tense and cringe and try to curl against the impending pain, and then another strike, never where he expected it.

Sherlock took a breath, opened his mouth, then let it out in a startled, broken sound when a stroke landed just behind his knees. The skin was tender there, sensitive, and he hadn’t thought it would come so low. He drew his legs up, instinctive, trying to protect them. He could feel sweat trickling down his back (surely only sweat, John wouldn’t break the skin, and of course it was John, it was). His hair clung damply to his forehead, the mask sodden over his eyes, and he tasted salt when he licked his lips. His breath came out in a moan with every exhale, escaping past clenched teeth. His chest began to hitch and he tried to take deep breaths but every time he inhaled, the crop came down again. 

_Five more_ , Sherlock told himself. Five more strokes and he’d say something. He’d make it stop. Surely he could take five more. He counted them, one-two-three-four-five, over faster than he thought. Wasn’t so bad. He could handle five more after that. One, two, and then the third landed hard across his thighs, right at the crease where they met his arse, the tender little fold of skin and he thrashed and curled, struggling to get away. He lay huddled, half sideways on the bed, legs tucked up and arms still stretched tight, aching, every muscle taut as he pulled at the cuffs. There was silence, no whistle of the crop through the air, no sharp snap as it landed on skin, just quiet and his own breathing, thick and wet in his throat.

Then, a tentative brush of fingertips on his hip, and that was John, that was John’s touch, it had been John all along. Of course. Foolish. Sherlock’s breath came out in a shudder and he swallowed hard. His back and thighs were crisscrossed with stripes of fire, stinging and aching and hot. The deeper throb of his shoulders and arms was secondary, easier to ignore. He couldn’t stop trembling, his muscles quivering beyond his control.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice was a balm, it was safety and relief and home. Sherlock let himself go limp, tension running out of him in a rush, leaving him dizzy. John moved around him. His hand stayed on Sherlock, trailing up his side, stroking gently over the welts on his ribs and up to his shoulder. A hot wave of helpless gratitude for that one small kindness swelled in his chest. _John._

“Okay,” John said softly. “Going to untie you now.”

Sherlock nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say and didn’t trust his voice. His left wrist came loose, and he pulled the blindfold off but kept his eyes closed. He curled tighter. It stretched the skin of his back, pulled painfully at the tender stripes, but he did it anyway. John walked around the bed to the other side, his hand trailing over Sherlock’s legs. There was a tug and a snap of the buckle, and then his right wrist was free as well. Sherlock brought both arms in close, wrapping them around himself. His back was still hot, but he felt cold everywhere else, clammy and shivery.

The bed rocked as John sat down beside him. John’s hand landed in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. His hand cupped Sherlock’s cheek, and a thumb swiped over his cheekbone, beneath his eyes. Sherlock leaned into the touch. John was warm, he radiated heat, and Sherlock wanted to press against him and soak it up. John didn’t talk, he just smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s hair, over and over, his other hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock wriggled over until he could put his head in John’s lap and wrap his body around John, one arm slung around his waist. His breathing slowed, and the trembling eased until he just felt wrung out and hollow.

Eventually, he opened his eyes. There was John’s belly right in front of him, a patch of the wall beyond, the familiar contours of their room. He could see a corner of the bedspread, one leather cuff still sitting open on the corner of the bed, the line of John’s thigh. Sherlock blinked slowly. John shifted, and Sherlock’s arm immediately went tight around his waist, holding him in place.

“All right,” John said. “Not going anywhere. I just need to check you over.”

Sherlock nodded and let go. John slid away, rolled Sherlock carefully onto his belly, stretched him out. His skin was stiff by then, sweat drying on the welts, and each new movement brought fresh, bright pain. Sherlock couldn’t hold back a gasp as he moved gingerly into place. John soothed him, stroked him everywhere his skin was still intact. He stood and took a step away from the bed. Sherlock twisted and sat up, and then swayed, the sudden shock of pain overwhelming as his body protested the movement.

“No, what are you doing?” John chided, worry laid thick in his tone. “Lie still, let me put something on that.”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock’s voice was rusty, scraping.

John looked at him, and. His _face_. Sherlock glanced away, uncertain. He had the sinking feeling that he had done something Not Good, something that was in fact extremely bad. John looked like someone had punched him, like all the air had been sucked out of the room, like he wanted to cry. “Sherlock…” He paused and took a measured breath. “I’m going to get something for your skin. I’ll be right back. Can you… can you let me? I need to take care of this. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. He watched John. He couldn’t seem to make his mind connect the dots properly. He took in details (John’s pale face, the lines of strain around his mouth, the damp shine to his eyes, the stiff line of his back) but his head was too fuzzy to assemble them. He was still cold, even his back cooling now, his fingertips gone numb and tingling, his head light. His thoughts were disjointed, wrapped in cotton batting, muffled.

John returned carrying a jar of something and a damp cloth, and he guided Sherlock back onto his belly. He used the cloth first, very gently, cleaning Sherlock’s back and thighs. It was cool and soothing. The cream he spread on Sherlock was even better, soft and silky, numbing on contact. Sherlock sighed and sank into the mattress, muscles releasing tension he hadn’t realized was there. John took his time with it. He handled Sherlock as if he were fine china, easily broken.

John got up, and Sherlock watched him walk to the bathroom again. He returned with the cloth freshly dampened and crouched by the bed. He stroked it over Sherlock’s face, his neck, removing the itchy layer of dried sweat. His eyes were intent on his work but those lines of strain were still visible around his mouth. When he was done, he just stayed there, regarding Sherlock steadily. “Hey,” he said, soft. “Any better? How’s the pain?”

“Okay,” Sherlock murmured. “Not bad.”

John’s lips pursed, and he looked away. “Why…” He closed his eyes, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“What?” Sherlock lifted his head, trying to catch John’s eye. “Why, what’s wrong?”

John gave him an incredulous look. “Seriously? I… this is wrong, what I did was wrong. You were struggling to get away at the end. You were crying. I _hurt_ you.”

Sherlock had no response to that. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, trying to wriggle further into the bed. John stood and grabbed a blanket, laying it carefully over him. Sherlock closed his eyes. The warmth was welcome, but even more, the feeling of being covered, of no longer being naked and exposed. He heard footsteps, and his eyes shot open. “Don’t go.”

John paused in the doorway. “I shouldn’t… you need time to…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“Then stay,” Sherlock said. He waited until John settled gingerly on the bed beside him, sitting up against the headboard. Sherlock shuffled over to rest his face on John’s thigh. He sighed when John’s hand threaded through his hair automatically. “I didn’t stop you,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not your responsibility.” John swallowed audibly. “I’m supposed to take care of you, I should have seen. I shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

Sherlock curled closer. He was still cold, despite the blanket, despite John’s warmth beside him. A fine tremor rocked his limbs. He was terribly thirsty but he didn’t want John to get up. He wanted to lay there and not think about it, he wanted the pleasant drifting haze that normally came after they indulged in this. It wouldn’t come, though, and the tremor got worse until he was shivering and clutching at John, his eyes squeezed shut. _Delayed stress reaction_ , his mind informed him clinically. Not helpful.

John stroked his hair and shoulders, and held Sherlock as well as he could without hurting his back. He murmured quiet nonsense, soothing and meaningless words. Just the sound of his voice was a comfort, a reminder that John was there, and John would take care of him. He always did. Even now, Sherlock trusted in that. He waited out the shaking until it eased and Sherlock let out a long, shuddery breath. His chest felt looser, lighter. He drew the blanket more closely around his shoulders and pressed against John, burying his face in the soft curve of his belly.

“What was it?” John asked. “The riding crop?”

“No, that was fine.” Sherlock wriggled a little, testing his response. Already the ache was fading. John had been careful; no broken skin. “It was the blindfold.”

“Oh. Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t hear you, or feel you, there was only the crop and I knew it was you, I did know that but I couldn’t…” His voice faltered and he burrowed closer to John.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He cradled Sherlock’s head in his hand, careful, as if he were precious and delicate. “I’m so sorry.”

“I should have stopped you,” Sherlock said. “I let it happen.”

“Not your fault.”

“Clearly it is at least partly my fault,” Sherlock replied. Then, before John could argue further, he added, “John, I can assure you that I don’t admit mistakes easily. You won’t hear this often. Try to enjoy the moment.”

John gave a startled huff of laughter. “Yeah, fair point,” he said. “Feeling all right? I can get you a painkiller if you need it.”

“Some water?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course.” John left a warm place on the bed when he got up, and Sherlock curled around it. He sat up carefully when John returned, and allowed himself to be fussed over. John tucked a pillow behind him, he pulled the blanket snug around Sherlock’s hips, he handed him the glass and waited patiently while Sherlock drank it down. Then John settled beside him, and Sherlock slid over to lean against him. John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“You’re thinking we can’t do this again,” Sherlock said. “Stop thinking that, it’s ridiculous.”

“How can you… no, no, never mind. Not important. Of course I’m thinking that.” John turned, meeting his eyes. “I took it too far. It could happen again. I’m not taking that risk.”

“You like risks.”

John sighed and shook his head. “Sherlock…”

“No, listen,” Sherlock replied. “This is good. This thing we do, it’s good, John. Don’t bother telling me otherwise, it’s obvious you enjoy it as much as I do. And I _do_ enjoy it, don’t question that. But it’s new, we’re learning it, we’re experimenting. Sometimes experiments yield unexpected negative results, but it’s still useful data and you learn from it, and the next experiment is better.”

“Unexpected negative results,” John muttered. “You utter madman.” But it was fond, the way he said it.

“And now we know the factors that led to those results, and can avoid those factors in the future.”

“We are not a bloody science experiment,” John said. He was going to be convinced though, Sherlock could see it. He wanted to be convinced.

“I’m not giving this up,” Sherlock said. He let it show on his face, let everything show, for an unguarded moment. “I can’t do that.”

John’s eyes softened, and he leaned in, letting their foreheads rest together. He cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck in one hand, rubbed the hinge of his jaw with his thumb. “Yeah,” he said. “Me either.”

*


End file.
